


The Relative Merits of Wing Types

by apple_pi



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-25
Updated: 2011-02-25
Packaged: 2017-10-15 22:36:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/165556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apple_pi/pseuds/apple_pi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Even drunk as a trout, surely Crowley wouldn't want to be seen struggling in such an undignified manner. With a <i>shirt</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Relative Merits of Wing Types

**Author's Note:**

  * For [maverick0324](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=maverick0324).



"You know what would be nice?" Crowley asked.

Aziraphale, being an angel and quite a kind-hearted entity, did not roll his eyes at this drunken enquiry. It helped, of course, that he was rather inebriated himself. "What?" he replied. "Do tell."

"Bat wings." Crowley sat up – he'd lain down earlier, quite a bit earlier, in fact. Possibly three days ago, or three hours. "I've seen those, those, those, whaddayacallems. Things. Like pictures."

"Paintings?"

"No, solid-er," the demon said.

The angel furrowed his brow. "Sculptures?"

"No!" Crowley scowled, and the wine began bubbling in its earthenware jug. "Not that solid."

"Stop that," the angel said mildly, waving one hand over the wine. "You'll burn all the alcohol away."

Crowley blinked and stopped scowling. "Wood. Wooden things, pictures, wood, wood, wood –"

"Woodcuts?" Aziraphale asked. He lifted the jug and considered pouring them each another cup, but the thing appeared to have a life of its own in his hands. He set it down again and concentrated – not a simple task at that precise moment – until both their cups were full of the strong red wine. "Do you mean woodcuts, my dear?" he repeated.

Crowley looked up from his cup, which he was regarding suspiciously. "Yes!" he exclaimed. "The very thing." He lifted his cup in a toast to the angel and took a long drink.

They sat in silence for a few moments.

"What would be nice about woodcuts?" Aziraphale asked.

"Nothing," Crowley said blankly. "Dreadful things. Not half so nice as paintings."

"But you said –" Aziraphale began –

"Oh!" Crowley set his cup aside and shrugged off his cloak. "I saw a woodcut, once, of a demon – not nearly as nice-looking as me, was he? No," he shook his head, "no, he was _not_ ," this required a look of intense self-satisfaction, and Aziraphale carefully didn't roll his eyes again, "but he had, he had bat wings." Crowley tugged at his tunic.

"Bats are nice," Aziraphale offered after a moment. "What are you doing?"

"S'a perfectly good shirt," Crowley said. He appeared to be caught up in it, and the angel looked away. Even drunk as a trout, surely Crowley wouldn't want to be seen struggling in such an undignified manner. With a _shirt_.

When the angel looked back, Crowley had untucked his wings. They were fine wings: serviceable, glossy, dark. "Do be careful," Aziraphale murmured. He moved the wine jug as Crowley flicked one wingtip forward and examined it critically. His shoulders were bare and smooth, pale against the sleek shine of feathers.

"Bat wings," the demon said, and they were. Black and leathery, rather attractive in their way, Aziraphale thought, but not at all the thing, really. Crowley apparently agreed, because he pursed his lips and the bat wings vanished, replaced by his natural appendages again.

"I think I prefer them this way," the angel said, and closed his eyes for a moment. It had been so long since... yes. A quiet ripping sound, and when he opened his eyes again, the room was full of feathers, black and white, and he wanted to stretch his wings so he did, a really satisfying itch easing in his shoulder blades. He laughed as his own shirt fell from his torso in tatters, and Crowley looked sharply at him, pupils wide and black in the thin ring of his gold irises, and smiled.


End file.
